Zutara Week 2012
by Miss Faber
Summary: Zutara week 2012, my favorite time of year! Enjoy these short drabbles dedicated to my OTP. Every chapter is a day. Prompts are as follows: serendipity, momentous, transcend, whimsical, heartstrings, faded, seasons.
1. Serendipity

**Zutara Week 2012**

** Day 1**

**Prompt: Serendipity**

_A/N: _Woohoo, Zutara week! My personal favorite time of year. I'm especially excited because this is the first year in which I'll be publishing my own contributions! I hope you enjoy them!

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_Serendipity: [ser-uhn-dip-i-tee] n. an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident._

"Zuko!" Her frantic whisper sounded abnormally loud, echoing against the metal walls. "We'll be caught!"

"By who?" Zuko raised an eyebrow, amused despite his thudding heart. "I'm the Fire Lord."

"I- you- I don't know!" Katara cast a cautious glance around her, as though masked Fire Nation guards would apparate from the tight walls of the tunnel. "We shouldn't be here, Zuko."

"Hush." Their footsteps sounded uncommonly loud, even through his warped ear. Katara's nonsense was getting to him.

"But-"

Zuko held up a hand and pointed, silencing her. "We're here."

Before them was a metal wall, the height of perhaps four men. A complex metal contraption jutted from it at face level; an absurd imitation of a doorknob. On either side of it were two copper dragons, curling and twisting in on their thin, long bodies until they disappeared on either side of the awestruck teenagers. Their fierce faces were contorted into scowls. Beady eyes, rusted over, started down at them; the dragons' jaws were open, waiting.

"How do we open it?"

Zuko turned to Katara, found her eyes wide, sparkling with uabashed excitement. He raised his hands, recalling the detailed instructions Uncle had given him. "Stand back."

Katara obeyed. Zuko positioned his fists underneath the dragons' open, expectant mouths. Torrents of flame sprung from them, swallowed by the inanimate beings. Something seemed to rumble in their copper stomachs, and a moment later, the knob twisted of its own accord. The heavy door opened with a hiss.

Zuko and Katara exchanged a glance, then took a simultaneous step forward.

The vault's ceiling was, oddly enough, domed. The entire room seemed to sparkle; piles of gold, rubies, diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, leaned against the walls, against ancient chests, against tall urns and seemed to swallow them up.

A breathy sigh escaped Katara's lips. "The Fire Nation sure is wealthy."

Zuko's mouth quirked into a wry smile. "Let's look around."

They did so, finding nothing particularily intriguing; though that in of itself was a paradox, considering they were surrounded by chunks of rare jewels.

"Zuko, look at this!"

At her delighted cry, Zuko left the fragile scroll he had been attempting to interpret and went to her. She presented an outstretched hand; in her open palm was a curious jewel.

Zuko leaned in closer to examine it; it was of a midnight blue, cut through with veins of sparkling whites and twinkling emeralds. The stone was cut into a perfect rounded oval, flattened at the bottom so that it lay comfortably in Katara's hand.

"It's the only one," she told him. "At least, I think it is. I can't find any more of it. Though, in a vault of this size, it would probably take me years to search properly."

A memory permeated Zuko's consciousness, a dry winter morning in which he and Azula pored over books as their instructor paced at the head of the room. _Lapis Lazuli_.

"It's not quite a jewel, but not a rock..." Katara was talking to him; Zuko shook his head free of that day and looked up at her. "What is it, Zuko?"

A small smile spread over his face, almost of its own accord. "Serendipity."

Katara's brow furrowed, but she didn't comment. Soon enough, she dropped the stone, and as soon as her back was turned, Zuko discreetly picked it up and hid it in the folds of his robe.

He wouldn't have need of it soon; not for a long time, he figured, since he and Katara were both teenagers with duties larger than the both of them. Yet, the day would come, he knew, when he'd need to carve a stone; and he felt secure in the slight weight that pressed against his abdomen. He knew which stone he would use.

But more importantly, he thought, as Katara's laugh rang through the metal chamber, he knew who he would carve it_ for_.


	2. Momentous

**Zutara Week 2012**

** Day 2**

**Prompt: Momentous**

_A/N: _This time, a bit of angst. :)

* * *

_Momentous: [moh-men-tuhs] adj. of great or far-reaching importance or consequence_.

Velvety royal blue; shimmering blue flowers peeping from chocolate curls. Silver, everywhere; in the lace trim of her sleeves and hem, glittering from the mask that covered half of her face. Her eyes were lined with the blackest kohl; combined with azure irises and mocha skin, it gave her a wild, exotic look.

It should have been perfect- everything about this night- but it wasn't.

Zuko was missing. The ball was in full swing; swirls of elaborate robes and long dresses, glitters of gossamer masks, clinks of delicate glasses as people toasted over their firewhiskey. _Not much to toast_, Katara thought bitterly, pushing her way as politely as she could through the crowd. The party was routine, a tradition established since the end of the war. Ambassadors, nobles, and royalty from all corners of the world would gather at the Fire Palace for the most elegant party of the year, while festivals and carnivals wracked the Palace City for an entire week afterwards. Usually, Katara immersed herself in the joviality of it all; but this year, she knew, there was the least reason to celebrate.

Over the past few months, towns and cities had been pillaged by merciless rebels; over the past few weeks, two attempts had been made to end the Fire Lord's- her _boyfriend's_- life. Zuko was at his wit's end, and it wasn't even for himself, she knew. He was worried about his nation, about his people; he was worried about what would happen if he failed.

Eventually, Katara reached Zuko's study; and not bothering to knock as she usually would, she simply pushed her way past the doors.

Zuko didn't bother to look up from the papers he was supposedly immersed in; but she knew better. "I'll be there in a minute."

Katara pushed a breath past her lips. "Zuko."

He looked up. How long had those bags been there, she wondered; those incriminating shadows beneath his eyes? And why hadn't she noticed them until now?

She felt, rather than saw, the pad of his thumb graze her lip. "You'll make it bleed."

Katara released her bottom lip; she hadn't even realized she was biting it. "Why aren't you at the ball?"

"Paperwork," he answered succintly. "The paperwork never ends."

"Zuko," she said again. "I know you better."

"I can handle this." The line of determination in his jaw was something he knew he inherited from his father. "Trust me, 'Tara, I'm okay."

"Zuko…" Her fingers grazed his hairline.

"I can handle it." The words were forced past gritted teeth.

Her trailing hands moved to hold his face, cupping each cheek with her palms. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Pretend," she said, words fervent. "I deserve better."

His smile was wry. "You do."

"Oh Zuko, talk to me," she pleaded, fingers kneading his temples. "Don't pretend you're okay when you aren't. You can share things with me, Zuko- you don't have to take care of it all by yourself. That's what intimacy is."

Katara undid his topknot, pulling the crown from it and setting it on the desk. "It's hard," he finally said, and the words literally wrenched from his throat.

She nodded encouragingly, threading her fingers through his hair; but he closed his mouth in a certain manner, his lips pressing together in a way that told her he wouldn't divulge any more.

Zuko gently pried her fingers from his scalp, picked up his crown and his mask. He rose. "We're already late."

Katara nodded, and she didn't know why her chest rang with the pangs of loss.

Zuko extended a hand to her, accompanied with a small smile full of the apologies he couldn't verbally say. "Coming?"

She nodded again; and somehow, in that moment, as her tapered fingers slid into his calloused palm, Katara felt worlds shift and collide and rearrange themselves. Everything had just changed between them, in that insignificant second, in a few carelessly uttered words. And, she thought dismally, it may be too late to do anything about it.


	3. Transcend

**Zutara Week 2012**

**Day 3**

**Prompt: Transcend**

_A/N: _This is told from Katara's point of view.I really really really loved writing this one :3

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_Transcend: [tran-send] v. to rise above or go beyond; overpass; exceed_

Red scales, tinged with gold; a surprisingly sinuous body graced with impressive wings. The dragon was mere feet away from me, but somehow I wasn't afraid; its eyes were a muted gold, like Zuko's, and that was enough.

It leaned in, closer; the hot steam that left its nostrils tickled my skin. _Some friendships are so strong, they can even transcend lifetimes._

The dragon bowed its head, its nose lightly touching my breast, before everything went black.

The cold air bit at my cheeks, chapped my lips in a matter of seconds. The dazzling white landscape blinded me.

"Sana!" At the mystifyingly familiar call, I turned around, found a tall man ambling towards me. As he came closer, I caught sight of his features; long hair in the color of chocolate, a squared jaw, kind blue eyes.

"Nilak," I whispered, the name somehow jumping to my lips, my hand reaching up to cup his tanned cheek tenderly. As he pulled me in for an embrace, everything went black again; but not before I noticed the broadswords he carried on his back.

I was a man, and an angry one at that. _She_ was sitting on my doorstep, her shoulders hunched so that her black hair formed a silk curtain that obscured her face. Though I couldn't yet remember her name, a surge of irritation rose in my chest.

"What are you doing here?"

She looked up at my voice; her eyes were huge and moist. "I.. I waited out here all night."

The irritation shifted into a surprisingly strong regret, tinged with tenderness. Mayur stood, her expression beseeching. "Please, Osam. Will you help me?"

My frown melted into a small smile. "I'll never turn my back on someone who needs me."

The misty morning vanished, making way for the interior of a clean house with sturdy columns. The new emerald and bronze furnishings were to my liking, I decided, as I walked into my home after a particularily long absence. I glanced down at myself; I was clad in heavy armor, and dirt still clung to the soles of my shoes.

"_Salin_!" My wife's shriek reached my ears from the end of the hall; and before I could properly respond, she had catapulted herself into my arms. "Salin, you're home."

"Jaya." I buried my hand in her hair, my other arm holding her flush against my body, keeping her from falling. She looked up at me; golden eyes awash with tenderness.

"I missed you."

I pressed my lips to hers, my eyes slipping closed of their own accord. "I missed you, too."

When I opened my eyes again, my lungs were burning.

I gazed down at myself; relieved, even as I ran, to find that I was a girl again. I was clad in a plain tunic and trousers made of a coarse material, in the very color of blood.

"Hurry, Ava!" In front of me, a girl clad in a mirror image of my suit paused in her sprint to beckon me; and, feeling a strong pull towards her, I answered her call.

When I reached her, she glanced at me; a silent, beseeching, frightened exchange. I swallowed, knowing somehow that whatever was chasing us was something fierce indeed.

"Shit!" My partner exclaimed; we'd reached the edge of a cliff. Waves crashed against the jagged rocks beneath us.

"Rae." My heart was beating impossibly fast in my chest. "What are we gonna do?"

Before she could answer, we heard a bellow behind us; a man chasing a shirshu burst into view. We exchanged a desperate glance.

"We can't go back," Rae told me, tone filled with finality.

I swallowed. "I know."

Rae chanced a glance back at the shirshu, then met my eyes. For the first time, I noticed her features. Pale skin, a mop of raven hair; her nose and chin formed delicate planes. She was a feminine version of Zuko.

"Let's jump," she whispered fervently. "They can't find us if we jump."

Tears blurred my vision. "We'll be together?"

Rae nodded fervently, grasping my hand tightly. "I'll always love you, Ava."

The last thing I heard was the roar of the water as we plummeted towards it.

A light autumn breeze kicked up my yellow robe, exposing my bare feet. I was standing on a balcony, in what appeared to be an Air Nomad monastery. I breathed in, inhaling the fresh air, before turning and entering my bedroom.

Spare, but comfortable; somehow, I was used to it, used to the man who slept on the thin mattress. I crawled up the bed, propping myself up on my elbow so that I could stare down at him; in the shadows, I took in his bald head, the Air Nomad tattoos. Then, compelled by something instictual, I pressed my lips to his forehead.

When I drew away, I saw not Kalden, but Zuko.

A heartbeat, a clash, a white canvas. The dragon was back. I registered mere surprise at that; but I was truly surprised at the sadness that overwhelmed me at the realization that my journey had seemingly ended.

_Don't be saddened. _The dragon nuzzled me. _Some relationships are so strong, their love can transcend lifetimes_.

I'd always known that our relationship, our love, transcended physical barriers, transcended expectations, transcended the confining caliber of words, transcended moments. But now, as I gazed into the dragon's eyes, I realized that we transcended time itself.

Subconsciously, I reached for Zuko; and, drawn to his warmth, I buried my head in his chest. Even in the throes of my prophetic dream, I felt safer, somehow; secure in the knowledge that I would never really lose Zuko. As the dragon bid me farewell with its knowing eyes, I breathed out the smallest of sighs; little glass wings unfolding from my ribcage.


	4. Whimsical

**Zutara Week 2012**

**Day four**

**Prompt: Whimsical**

_A/N_: It took me the longest time to get an idea for this particular prompt, but when the idea finally came, the words just flowed. I hope you like it!

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_Whimsical: [hwim-zi-kuhl, wim-]adj. given to whimsy or fanciful notions; capricious_

While the entirety of the street is empty, windows on houses boarded up; this tent seems particularily abandoned, hollow. It looks horribly misplaced on the desolate street; a toy that fell from the absentminded grip of a child and was left there, forgotten. Crimson, gold, and silver flags flutter in the wind, standing on poles that protrude from the ground at all four corners of the tent; the lonely dregs of whimsy.

But as Katara stands there, drinking in its odd appearance, she thinks she can smell cinammon wafting through the evening breeze; a subtle sweetness at the edges of the cold.

She takes a step towards it.

A fevered hiss comes from behind her. "_What're you doing_?"

Katara half turns and shrugs, not the least bit deterred by Zuko's scowl. "We've been wandering for hours." She crosses her arms over her chest and quirks an eyebrow, somewhat amused by the entire situation; or, perhaps, amused by how seriously Zuko was taking it all. "Admit it, Zuko, we're lost."

Zuko shakes his head. "I can take us back to the upper ring."

She shushes him with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Maybe someone in there can help us."

"In there?" Zuko echoes incredulously. "It's empty."

A waft of cinammon breeze tickles her nose; a small, oddly knowing smile curves her lips. "No, it isn't."

With that, she moves forward decisively, and Zuko has no choice but to follow.

Zuko holds the flap of the tent open for her, but Katara rolls her eyes in response. They enter together, Katara's breath leaving her in a short gasp. "_Oh_."

Everywhere, there are candles; hundreds, perhaps thousands, little columns of wax that are perched upon ancient shelves and ornate chests and dusty books. Every single one of the incredibly small candles is lit, diffusing the room in a warm, muted glow. The walls of the supposedly shabby tent are lined in a crimson velvet, the pools of light landing on it giving the illusion of heat.

Someone clears their throat; and Katara gasps again, her roving eyes falling on a woman that lurks in the shadows.

The teenagers are frozen as she approaches them, somehow unable- or unwilling- to bat an eyelash. The woman's hair is the color of ravens, streaked through with brilliant silver. Her eyes are huge and hazel, lined with some dark and sooty makeup that only increases the exotic air she carries. Her robe, surprisingly, is a simple black, though she wears a charm around her neck that falls beneath her bust, a charm that neither teenager recognizes.

"_Kohl_," she says, and Katara sucks in a breath. "I can give you some, if you'd like."

Without waiting for an answer, the woman picks something up from the edge of a table, hiding it in her closed fist. When she raises her hand to Katara's face, Zuko knocks it away.

"Back away, woman," Zuko seethes.

The woman responds to the threat of his clenched fist, the threat in his eyes, with an utterly bored expression.

"Why?" she asks, genuine inquiry in her voice. "I can't possibly hurt her more than you have."

Zuko's eyes widen, stricken; the woman watches his hand fall with apparent noninterest, as if he couldn't have hurt her even if he wanted to. She raises her hand to Katara's face; unfurls her fist to reveal a short black stick, resembling charcoal.

Katara's eyes do not waver from the woman's as she presses the stubby end of the stick to her eyelid. She starts, but the woman shushes her; her palm is pressed so tightly to Katara's cheek that she thinks she can almost feel the lines that mar them.

"There." The woman pulls away. "Beautiful."

She turns her back on the mystified couple. Katara swallows, tries to force her lips to formulate coherent words. "Who are you?"

The woman is bent over a table when she answers, the sleeves of her arms billowing as they moved, working on something they could not see. "I am a woman."

"Yes, but.. what's your name?"

"It matters not." Her reply is as swift as the movement of her hidden hands. "Names are not of nearly as much importance as people like to think they are."

She turns, faces them; in her hand is a thin, long stick, one tip of it aglow. A tendril of smoke escapes it, lazily moving towards the ceiling.

"What's that?" Katara asks.

"_Bukhoor_," she replies, without further explanation. She walks leisurely across the small space and wedges the stick between two candles; more smoke wafts through the air.

"You may find that when things seem irreparable," the woman says, cryptically. "It is best to dance."

Befuddled by her sudden statement, Zuko and Katara exchange a look; when they turn away from each other, the woman is gone.

The fragrant smoke tickles Katara's nostrils. "It.. it smells good."

Zuko nodds, ridden by a surprisingly fierce guilt that arose at the strange woman's words. "Would you..." He exhales. "_Would_ you like to dance?"

Katara's lined eyes grow impossibly wide; the implications are too great. "But..." She racks her brains for proper words. "There's no music," she ends up saying.

Zuko raises a hand, palm up; and suddenly, it doesn't matter.

They move together, guided by something instinctual, by the universe, by the candles, by the _bukhoor_. Her tapered fingers slide into Zuko's warm palm, his hand sliding down her side to cup the curve of her waist. They step forward, and back, then forward again; neither one of them leads, but neither one of them follows, either.

Despite the inexplicable haze, despite Katara's proximity, Zuko can't rid his mind of the woman's words. "I never meant to hurt you."

Katara smiles sadly. "It doesn't matter now."

And, for some reason- perhaps the fragrant smoke, perhaps the ludicracy of the entire situation- Zuko realizes that it doesn't.

So they dance; they spin and weave and waltz to the beats of their own hearts. From her unattainable perch, the woman with the kohl watches on, her head tilting forward in a nod of approval.

"You know..." Zuko's hand lifts from the curve of her waist to trace the collar of her maroon robe, gilded at the sleeves and hem. "This is... this is nice."

Though it isn't exactly a compliment, Katara can't help but blush. "Uh.. thank you."

"I mean, it looked nice in the market, but..." He pauses, takes in a shallow breath. "It's... exquisite on you."

_Exquisite_. Katara swallows.

"You should wear it," he finishes lamely.

Katara's eyes are wide, the beginnings of a smile tinging her trance-like expression. "I am wearing it."

"Oh, um... right." Zuko's hand falls back to the curve of her waist, but continues to move in an absentminded caress.

Katara's head falls against Zuko's shoulder; her eyelids slip closed. "This is weird," she whispers. "I'm happy, and I don't know why."

"So am I." Zuko's response is hushed. "I'm never happy."

Katara chuckles, raises her head. "I feel a little... dizzy, though."

Zuko nods; he feels it too. "Sort of lightheaded."

"Yeah... " Her voice trails off as Zuko's hand begins to move up and down her side. "My head hurts."

Simultaneously, they stop moving. "Probably from the spinning," Zuko volunteers. "We should stop."

Katara's eyes are wide; Zuko notices, as if from a distance, that the kohl has smeared. "We have stopped," she says.

Compelled by something they could never quite understand, they simultaneously glance down at themselves; they find themselves closer than they thought they were, the edges of Katara's robe fluttering against Zuko's tunic, the pads of his thumbs ghosting over the soft skin of her wrist.

The corner of Zuko's mouth quirks upwards. "Have we?"


	5. Heartstrings

**Zutara Week 2012**

**Prompt: Heartstrings**

* * *

_Heartstrings: [hahrt-stringz] n. the deepest feelings, the strongest affections_

They sat in a structured order; or, at least, their chambers did. Katara, Iroh, Zuko. The younger two had fought; and, while banter was a regular part of their day, this was different. This was accusations and tears and uncontrolled bending. Katara had drenched him. He'd burned the curtains. Now she sat in tears, face buried in her hands, while Zuko paced his chamber, a deep scowl twisting his features.

Iroh, however, was singing.

The younger two could hear his voice; it traveled through the cracks in the wall, through the space undernreath the door. It was a deep, strong, somewhat tragic bass. "Too many times, I have wondered... what all trying is for."

Zuko's scowl deepened. What was, indeed, the purpose of trying, when every action was met with dismissal, disapproval, judgment? What was the point of trying when everything he did wasn't enough?

_You can't tell me what to do_. Her fierce voice rang through his skull._ I'm _not _yours_.

His hands were trembling; he pressed them to his chest to still them. It didn't matter in the general context; ambassadors would dismiss, nobles would judge, citizens could disapprove. But Katara- he scowled again. Katara was another matter entirely.

Iroh's voice permeated the walls. "Too many times, I have drowned, because I know that you're falling short."

It wasn't that he fell short; Zuko was a king among men, and not for his royal status. He was uncommonly kind; the world was fortunate for his reign after the destruction his forefathers had wreaked. He was especially kind to _her_, and she knew it; he treated her like porcelain.

Maybe that's what she hated.

_Stay there_, he'd commanded her; as though she was his to order around, as though she didn't have a right to her own body. _Agni, stay there!_

A shuddering breath left her._ I should have listened_.

"Too many times I have wanted," Iroh sang. "To turn around and walk away. Because I know deep inside, you can't provide... what I need from you, anyway."

He'd never meant for it to happen; it just had. She'd acted impulsively and he'd gotten angry and she'd taken a step too far on a night pounding with rain.

Zuko's arm had reached out to steady her when she almost fell; he recalled that, clearly, his arm shooting out almost of its own accord. He recalled that shallow panic that had gripped him for one, terrifying split second; the panic that always came whenever there was a remote possibility of Katara in danger. He had grasped her forearm tightly and bore her weight- his eyes had met hers, wide and blue and angry and desperate and afraid- before pulling her up into a semblance of balance.

But, of course, she'd pulled away. And the next time she'd slipped, he hadn't moved quickly enough. And because of that, because of _him_, they'd both lost something they could never quite get back.

"I tell you that I want to go, but I want to stay."

_His fault_.

"I tell you that I want to go, but I want to stay."

_Her fault_.

"I tell you that I want to go, but I want to stay."

A simultaneous swell of guilt rose in two chests. _My fault_.

"But I know I'm gonna lose myself this way."

And some things, Zuko thought with a sick sort of acceptance, were irredeemable. Respect, honor; hastily uttered words. Love. Lives.

"But do you know..." Here, Iroh's words came slowly; each punctuated by a heartbeat. "It doesn't change... the way I feel about-you, at the end of the day... because I know... that all I want is what you've got."

_But you're not all I want_, Katara thought, sobbing into her arm uncontrollably._ I wanted the baby, too. _

"All I want is what you've got."

_Even when she denounces me, even when she _hates_ me, I love her_. The thought crept up on Zuko- but really, it was fact, a deep set mentality embedded in his very bones.

_I love him_, Katara thought dully. _I love him, and I need him more than I've ever needed anyone_.

"But... is it enough?" Iroh's song intruded on their thoughts. "This... _moment_ is all I've got."

Katara rose from the soft cushion she was sitting on, drifted to the window. She opened it, inhaled the clean night air; then lifted her face up to the sky and let the rain mingle with her tears.

Acceptance was as slippery as an eel-viper, Zuko thought, as tangible as air. For him, it had disappeared some time ago; it was some vague shadow on the horizon, something hidden in a box he sometimes opened up at night when sleep was impossible.

For Katara… well. Perhaps it had never existed.

"I pluck not harp strings, but heartstrings..." Iroh's voice rose into a crescendo at the final word; then fell into a dramatic hush. "And that's all I've got."


	6. Faded

**Zutara Week 2012 **

**Prompt: Faded**

Rating: K

_A/N_: Gah, Zutara week's almost over! I've been having so much fun with these drabbles D: And for two of them- Transcend and Whimsical- I won Honorable Mentions on Zutara Week's official tumblr!

This drabble made me sad ;_;

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_Faded: [feyd-ed] adj. to lose brightness or vividness of color. to become dim, as light, or lose brightness of illumination. to lose freshness, vigor, strength, or health. to disappear or die gradually_

The breeze, somehow, was gray. As Zuko made his way up the hill, the thought wormed its way into his brain; he latched onto it, allowing it to echo over and over again through his skull. It would make what he had to do easier.

He was careful not to tread on the fire lillies that grew in random patches, navigating his booted feet carefully through the wild growth. Finally, he reached the apex; where an intricately carved stone jutted from the ground.

With trembling hands, Zuko drew what he needed from the folds of his robe. A stick of incense, candles, a portrait. A knife that had passed from hand to hand; _Never give up without a fight. _He stared at the inscription for a moment- _Mine? Really?_ - then savagely pushed it into the hard soil. Now it read: _without a fight_.

He swallowed the lump that rose in his throat.

"You fought." The words wrenched themselves from his lips. "I know you did."

Tears were beginning to blur his vision; he quickly squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his palms to his face. It really wouldn't do to cry; Katara would see when he returned home, and she'd smiled at breakfast today. She'd drank all of her tea. He couldn't ruin that.

Eventually, when he thought that he'd regained a semblance of control, he lifted his hands from his face. Two fingertips extended; lit the candles, the incense. Fragrant smoke rose in lazy, elaborate wisps.

In them, he saw Kuzon's face. _Mine? Really?_

_Yes, _Zuko had answered, smiling in response to the boy's enthusiasm. _It's yours_.

_Wow_. He'd quietly turned the short blade over in his stubby fingers, trailed a fingertip over the inscription. _What does it say?_

_Never give up without a fight, _he'd told him, and Kuzon had smiled.

_I'll never go anywhere without it!_ He'd hopped around the crimson chamber enthusiastically. _Never! Never!_

Zuko closed his eyes, breathed; in, out. In. Out.

"Good evening, my son." A small smile wrinkled the corners of his eyes. "I remembered."

His son's innocent, lifeless eyes stared back from the portrait; the child's cheeks as round as the day he was born.

_He's beautiful_, Zuko had whispered when his eyes first fell on his son; tone filled with reverence. Carefully, Zuko had allowed a finger to snake out and touch the downy hair, then trail down to the baby's smooth forehead.

_Of course he is_, Katara had replied, propped up against mountains of pillows. _He looks like you_.

His hair was ebony, like his father's, his skin a few shades darker than Zuko's own pallor. A heartbeat later, his eyes fluttered open; revealing irises as blue as the ocean, as the sky, as his mother's.

Zuko had smiled. _He looks like you, too_.

The tears, now, were imminent; Zuko pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes in a vain attempt to suppress them. He couldn't lose it; for Kuzon, for Katara.

He had yet to sing.

He swallowed again, cleared his throat. "Leaves from the vine... falling so slow..."

What had Katara said after that comment; after he'd told her that Kuzon looked as much like his mother as he did his father? Zuko couldn't quite remember.

"Like fragile little shells... drifting in the foam..."

The tears were imminent now; running down his face in unabashed rivulets. "Little soldier boy... come marching home..."

_I'll never forget who I am, father_.

"Brave soldier boy..." The portrait, the grass, the rock, the knife, the memory; all of it was somehow faded. "... Comes marching home."


	7. Seasons

**Zutara Week 2012**

**Day 7**

**Prompt: Seasons**

_A/N: _I'm sorry it took so long to post this chapter! I posted it on my tumblr and thought I did so here, too, but only just discovered my mistake.

I've also realized that I never announced the url change to my tumblr: what used to be _insidemissfaber_ is now _zutarasbedsheets_. Follow me on .com for updates, sneak peaks, and such :3

This drabble is written from Katara's point of view. Enjoy the final installment of Zutara Week 2012!

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_Season: [see-zuhn] n. one of the four periods of the year (spring, summer, autumn, and winter), beginning astronomically at an equinox or solstice, but geographically at different dates in different climates. a period of the year characterized by particular conditions of weather, temperature, etc. a period of the year when something is best or available. a period of the year marked by certain conditions, activities, etc. a period of the year immediately before and after a special holiday or occasion._

Spring wasn't very kind to me.

We tried to bury our skeletons, then; opened hatchets that we weren't sure we could close. Still, we did it together; and that was everything.

But I digress.

I liked to think of it - what we did in autumn- as a cleansing; absolving me of all my empty hopes through streams of seawater. After all, isn't that what water is: purity, clarity, chances? I'm a waterbender; I should know.

We tried to recreate ourselves, and that, perhaps, was our mistake. Some things are meant to stay the way they are, blessed with immortality; elements, portraits, scars. As the salt scraped at my face, I heard a small sound; like a toothy exhale, the final wisps of a tsungi horn. I touched my cheeks, and was taken aback at the purples and blues on my fingertips.

We couldn't purify ourselves, but we could fix each other; so you wiped away the bruises left from your lips, _oh-so-ten-der-ly_. My lips trace the glossy ridges of your scar, and we exchange a look; like I've never looked this beautiful in your eyes. And I'm torn, tossed between the shores of reality and you, between expectations and desires, like something's pushing me to and fro, along tumbling, delicious waves, and flinging me onto the jagged-

No, spring wasn't very kind to me.

Summers, with us, are candles and seawater and fireflies. Do you remember the basin we made in the violet hours of a summer night- filled to the brim with thoughts, desires, and helpless dreams? The moon smiled upon it, upon us, as we fashioned it out of our elements and out of stray leaves. We murmured the hidden parts of our souls into it; whispered haikus, our lips tainted with the poison of grapes.

After storytellers, we'd become swimmers, dancers, spirits freed. The contents of the basin undulate, and I'd stare into your eyes; molten pools of amber. And together, we'd cup our trembling hands and lower them into our deadly concoction and take a small sip.

Oh, summer brought us close; but autumn severed that.

I was weak. I held a feather between my fingertips, torn from your messenger hawk- _It won't be long, but Agni, I'll miss you_- twirling it, marvelling at the delicate, hollow shaft, the downy little fibers, each an individual shade... and thought of you.

It's difficult- no, impossible- to refine raw feelings into loops and dots and lines. Perhaps if I let the feather into the wind... that could work. Maybe some projection of fate would take hold of it, send it over, with an airy kiss. Maybe you'd find it, and shiver in a spell of nostalgia.

_No_.

I was weak, and that irritated me more than anything else; more than your absence, even. I was a master, a _hero_- yet here I was, snivelling over some golden eyed boy.

_You can't taste the ink like you can my lips_.

Winter is a gentle season to speak of, ironically enough. Harsh winds and the bite of ice weren't new to me, and as your heated palms drew patterns over my skin I was _never_ more grateful that you were a firebender.

I remember a walk we took, once, during an especially chilly winter spent in Ba Sing Se; you wouldn't remember it, it was hardly significant. The ground was frosty and the air was brisk, the mysteries of the world hidden in the folds of the next street corner. Some snow had seeped into my shoes and it was irritating, but the world was white and quiet and a melody was playing in my mind and my breath was hot and you absentmindedly threw me a smile that felt especially warm, like a secret.

For a sheer moment, I felt closer to you than I ever was; like I had crept under your skin and settled there.

I wanted it to last forever, that feeling, but it didn't. It didn't even last a solid minute. The moment ended as quickly as it had begun. For a while, I felt choked with despair; but that ended too, and I kept walking, and the melody continued as though it had never stopped.

After all, everything that's new is only new for a second.


End file.
